


Shivah

by Thesockswhowearsfox



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 22:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13040688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesockswhowearsfox/pseuds/Thesockswhowearsfox
Summary: For Resbang 2017. After Wes dies unexpectedly, Soul is tasked with collecting his brother's worldly possessions, and the pieces of their relationship he left behind.





	1. Shivah

**Author's Note:**

> For Resbang 2017! Hear the playlist by MacabreMermaid here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLiDEQnr0jzq1BmaqUlRtzs_RxtgiipRUO

The black motorcycle thrummed a deep heavy note as Soul navigated through the small series of condominium buildings. Pricey cars parked in doorless garages adjacent to the main buildings, along with several less obvious indicators of wealth, such as stained glass windows in some of the condos he passed gave him an inkling of the income level of the neighborhood. 

 

Driving this rented monstrosity was grating. It didn’t turn as smoothly as Soul liked, the handlebars were too short, and worst of all, it was off pitch. 

 

Soul’s usual bike in Nevada hummed at a perfect A. It had taken him some serious tinkering and no small amount of time to get the damned thing to do what he wanted, but riding this heap of junk made him inwardly thank the gods he had done it. This one made his skin crawl. Still, riding a motorcycle was more soothing than riding in a car. Soul didn’t like being the passenger in a vehicle. The lack of control over the speed and movement made him nervous.  

 

The motorcycle finally pulled up to the seventh building and came to a halt almost perfectly in the middle of the space. Kid would have been so proud of him. The condominium building was three stories tall, with large bay windows on every floor facing the lot. Red painted wooden beams held up wrought iron stairs, matching the red accents around every window. The wooden siding was painted an almost beige color that, as far as Soul was concerned, was a graffiti tag reading “THE HOMEOWNER’S ASSOCIATION WAS HERE”.

 

As he kicked out the stand, he heard, rather than saw, the white moving truck get to the building. It, at least, was almost in tune.

 

He pulled the black helmet off of his head and turned just as Maka parked the moving truck beside him, switched off the engine, and got out, her black shoes clicking on the pavement. 

 

Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail, and she wore just a small amount of make-up around her emerald eyes. Her black formal dress poked outwards slightly at her belly. She was remarkably thin for a woman six months pregnant, though she’d been remarkably thin for a human being for as long as Soul could remember, so it didn’t come as too much of a surprise. Still, Soul had spent more than a few nights laying awake worried their child would be born premature or too small. When he had said as much to Maka she had laughed and said that wasn’t how babies or gestation worked, but still he worried. 

 

Which was why he had told Maka to stay at their hotel this week and relax. Soul was more than capable of packing a few boxes and filling a car up with them. He just needed someone to  _ drive  _ the car after it was packed because technically he only had driven a motorcycle.

 

Soul began walking towards the stairs without a word, lost in his own thoughts, leaving Maka to scramble after him.  

 

Maka caught up to him as he was opening the front door, the keys obtained two days earlier from an attorney. “Are you sure you don’t want your parents to help with this?” Maka asked tentatively, as she stepped through the doorway. 

 

“Yes, Maka. If they get involved they’ll just throw money at the problem. They’ll have all this stuff boxed up by strangers and sold at auction.” Soul paused as he pulled the keys from the deadbolt lock. “Or burned maybe.” 

 

“But your Mom didn’t seem-”

 

“It’s better this way,” Soul interrupted. He suddenly had to fight down a lump in his throat and he shook his head to clear it. “Wes wouldn’t want his stuff sold off or pawned. He’d give it away first.” 

 

Soul closed the door behind them, and a hand grabbed his wrist gently. Maka’s fingers could no longer wrap all the way around his arm like they could when they’d first met at college eight years ago, but her grip was as firm as ever, as if it could anchor him in place.

 

“There’s no  _ right _ way to react, you know?” Maka’s green eyes were concerned, and as he often did when she looked at him, he felt like she was seeing directly through him, as though he was made of a thin sheet of glass and not flesh and bone. He met her gaze, and her grip softened. She laced her pinky finger with his, their silver wedding bands clinking softly. “Some people cry, others laugh, or scream or break things...or ...”

 

“I’m fine, Maka,” Soul said, looking away with a sigh. “We weren’t close, Wes and me.” 

 

“Wes and I,” Maka said automatically, and then grimaced. “Sorry, I know you’re-”

 

“ _ Maka _ ,” Soul said, a tinge of impatience in his voice. “I don’t want to go forty rounds with you about this. Wes was a lot older than me, and we were never really close. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost five years. I’m fine. I don’t need to cry or smash things or reminisce about ‘the good ol’ days.’ I’m  _ fine _ .” 

 

There was a flash of guilt in Soul’s eyes as he spoke, and for a moment, emotions warred across his face before he managed to get a grip on them, returning his stony demeanor to his visage. 

 

Maka looked like she didn’t quite believe him, but she didn’t contradict the statement.

 

They stepped further into the flat, which was well-decorated, but simple. A few canvas paintings hung on the walls of the living room, as well as a picture of the skyline of Seattle, where Wes had gone to college briefly. A television sat in a corner hutch, and a small blue teddy bear that might have come from a carnival sat on top of it. 

A green suede sofa sat in the middle of the room, facing the television. It was rather low to the ground, as though the springs and legs were missing, almost giving it the appearance of a misshapen butterfly cocoon.  

 

Soul realized with frustration, as he looked around the room filled with small knick knacks that, in his rush to get here from the funeral, he had neglected to obtain cardboard boxes, or even a plastic tub to put things in. “We’re gonna need to go to the store.” Soul said, looking around the room. 

 

“There are boxes in the car as well as one of those things to help you move heavy stuff,” Maka said, walking over to the television hutch, and picking up the blue stuffed animal. “The kind with wheels.” She made a gesture with her hands that was somehow meant to mean “wheels” but looked more like “keep going”.

 

“When did you-” Soul began, but his wife was already answering his question.

 

“They had them at the truck rental place this morning when I picked up the U-haul, and I figured you wouldn’t remember to get any.”

 

Soul walked over to where Maka stood and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a godsend,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

 

Maka nodded and waved her hands absently towards the door, eyes never leaving the hutch or the various knickknacks on it. 

 

Soul left the apartment, running to the car to get boxes, and Maka began putting small objects that decorated the television stand in a pile. A tiny porcelain soldier, a mouth harp, a few novels passed through her hands as she worked, each of which had a thin layer of dust on it. Then, Maka’s hands found a small oval picture frame. The frame was silver lined, but unlike the toy soldier and the mouth, it was not dusty, and in fact she thought she could make out fingerprint smudges. The photo inside was of two young white-haired boys, perhaps five and twelve years of age, wearing winter sweaters. Soul sat on Wes’s back, arms wrapped around the older boy’s neck, and both were smiling at something outside of the frame.

 

Maka smiled sadly at the picture, her fingers tracing the lines of Wes’s young face, alight with laughter as he carried a grinning Soul on his back. The door banged open as Soul staggered back in, carrying an armload of folded cardboard, and Maka quietly slipped the picture frame into her purse before Soul could notice.

 

Soul placed the boxes by the door, and examined the room. Then he walked to the kitchen and did the same. Maka followed behind him, wondering what he was looking for. 

 

A small hallway, with a few paintings or pictures hung on the left side, led straight back towards a series of doors. Soul absentmindedly reached out and allowed his fingers to gently trace along the wall as he walked, looking oddly like a child touching each rung on a fence. 

 

A closet cut the hallway about halfway down its length, three white doors taking up the far end. 

Soul exhaled softly as he reached the end of the hall and opened the door on the right, revealing a bedroom with light colored wood furniture. He left it open and glaced over his shoulder as Maka turned the brass knob of the center door to reveal a small, nondescript bathroom. 

 

Soul reached out and grasped the doorknob of the white door to his left, swinging the door open.

 

_ Soul’s feet just barely reached the pedals of the grand piano in his parents’ music room. A piece of sheet music sat in front of him titled “Sonata for Piano and Violin in E Major” by J.S Bach. _

 

_ The notes flowed from Wes’ violin a few feet away, and Soul’s small hands gently pressed down on the ivory keys. His part was a backdrop for the violin, which was good- it meant no one would be looking at him during the recital. Too many eyes had a tendency to make Soul uncomfortable.  _

 

_ He wouldn’t stumble from too much attention, his hands were too practiced for that. He would however, feel his mind whimper, and after it was over and the adrenaline faded his spine would flare with pain. _

 

_ Wes’ fingers moved smoothly, like a well-oiled machine, and his bow gliding gently across the strings of the violin. He was like a song given form, each movement a note upon a grand staff.  _

 

_ “Soul!” A harsh female voice rang out from another room. “Key of E! There are no B flats!” _

 

_ Soul cringed. He hated when he missed notes. His mother often yelled, but there had been a few times when she had come in and berated him for mistakes until he cried. Then of course, she would yell at him for crying. ‘Boy’s aren’t supposed to cry,’ she would say. Loudly. Likely more than once.  _

 

_ Wes placed the bow in his other hand, and stepped towards the piano and ruffled Soul’s hair. _

 

_ “It’s alright. We all make mistakes,” Wes said softly.  _

 

_ “You don’t, Wes!” Soul hissed back. “Ever!” _

 

_ “Sure I do,” said Wes, reaching out and flicking Soul’s ear. “I just make them when no one is around.”  _

 

_ Soul swatted Wes’ hand away. “My hands aren’t big enough for some of the reaches in this section.” His hands were shaking, and his eyes kept darting towards the doorway. _

 

_ Wes looked at the sheet music for a moment, before walking to his music stand and coming back with his own.  _

 

_ “Would the melody line be easier? I can play the right hand part for this section.” Wes’ long-fingered hands pointed out the notes that could be swapped, and they tried it, quietly. It was easier for Soul’s hands. _

 

_ They played it that way again, louder, and when there was no condemnation to be heard, they kept it that way.  _

 

Soul slammed the door shut, and released the doorknob like it had bitten him. 

 

“What was in there?” Maka said, trying to lean past her husband’s tall frame.

.

Soul didn’t say anything for a moment. He turned around and, without looking at her, said, “Nothing. Just a practice room.”  

 

Soul walked back down the hall, and began to move boxes into the main room. Maka’s mouth opened, a second question on her lips, but seeing the straightness of her husband’s back, Maka didn’t press him.

 

______

 

_ Clink.  _

 

The funeral, in Soul’s opinion, had been a tasteless affair. Wes had been cremated before his parents could object, thanks to Wes’s attorney, a small blessing Soul inwardly thanked the Heavens for. He was not sure he could have maintained his composure if he had been made to eat and drink around an open casket, like his parents had wanted. He’d barely kept his temper with the two hundred odd strangers who had turned up to kiss up to his parents and pretend they had ever so much as met Wesley Evans. It had been hard enough trying to keep a straight face while a choir sang “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. Soul had deep moral qualms with the use of a song about infidelity at a funeral for a man who had gotten divorced three months before his death. 

 

_ Clink. _

 

Soul's hands packed cups wrapped in newspapers and a stack of black dinner plates into a cardboard box on the floor. Unbidden, the image of the Wes sitting up in his casket and berating the choir director for his song choice leapt into his head . He snorted, and then had to contain himself before it turned into startled laughter.  

 

Maka looked up from the other room, where she had been rummaging in her purse. “Did you say something?”

 

“No,” Soul responded, as the mental image of Wes throwing shoes at an organist vanished from his mind. “I was just thinking.”

 

Maka walked over to the kitchen counter and leaned against it. She was still in her dress from the funeral service, which was Soul’s fault. He had rushed her. He wanted this task dealt with. The attorney said that the sale of the condo would cover what remained of Wes’ debts, and he wanted to be away from here with the important things -- the ones that mattered. 

 

Not that he’d decided what to do with them. Wes had left everything to Soul and Maka, but Soul had a feeling Wes would have wanted some of his things to go to charity. But at the moment, he didn’t have the time or the energy to think about it. He’d figure it out when he was away from his parents, heading home with Maka and their unborn child. 

 

“Soul!” Maka said, a little sharply. 

 

“Hmm, what?” Soul forcefully dragged himself away from his own thoughts.

 

“I asked what you were thinking about,” Maka said, putting a hand on his arm. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 

“I was thinking about what we’re gonna do with all this crap.” Soul gestured expansively at the apartment, his hand still holding a glass.

 

Maka grabbed his other arm as he reached for another item of dishware, and gently turned him to face her. “What do you want to do with it? We could hang some of the paintings up at our house, or we could sell them and give the proceeds to a charity. There’s a teddy bear that could go in the nursery. When you finish building it.”

 

Soul made a face, rankled both at the implication that he hadn’t finished the nursery and at the idea of giving a baby a stuffed animal from a dead man’s house. 

 

“It’s…built,” Soul said evasively, turning to continue wrapping the glasses.

 

“It certainly has a crib in it,” Maka agreed, grabbing a glass herself. “A crib doesn’t make a nursery, Soul. It’s like you were raised in a barn.”

 

_ Clink. _

 

“Well what else does it need?” 

 

He should have known there would be a list. 

 

“A rocking chair and a music box! And the walls are grey, Soul.  _ Grey _ . It is not a good nursery color. Do you want the baby to be depressed?”

 

_ Clatter. _

 

Soul looked down at the glass he had dropped on the floor. It hadn’t shattered, so he leaned down to pick it back up before it could roll away.  

 

“Like me, you mean?” His fingers curled around the cool glass softly, lifting it up and back onto the counter.

 

“Soul, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t-”

 

He looked over at Maka, who was holding a hand to her mouth.

 

“It’s fine. I know what you meant,” Soul said calmly, his long fingered hands wrapping the glass in newspaper, and putting into the box. He didn’t meet Maka’s eyes until he was sure all the water had dried from his own. “It runs in families after all. Hand me that cookie jar?” Soul asked, his voice steady, his tone controlled. He gestured to a porcelain jar in the shape of the genie from Aladdin perched atop the refrigerator. 

 

Maka turned and handed it to him, and he looked at it oddly for a minute. 

 

“This sat in our grandfather’s house for as long as I can remember. And there were never cookies in it either. Dog treats only,” Soul said, opening the jar. Empty, but it still smelled like dog biscuits. Yuck. He packed it gently into the box. 

 

“Why dog treats?” Maka asked, seeming relieved to move on from the slip. 

 

“No idea. He didn’t even own a dog.”

 

Maka quietly wrapped another cup, her eyes on Soul’s face as he spoke.

 

“He definitely noticed when we put cat treats in so he must have opened it for some reason.”

 

_ Clink. _

 

_ Clink. _

 

_ Clink.  _

 

Maka looked like she might say something else, but hesitated. “Soul, let’s go back to the hotel for the night. We can finish this tomorrow, right?”

 

Soul took in the now mostly-empty kitchen. He looked over at the living room, filled with furniture. Furniture he couldn’t move alone and that Maka was six months too pregnant to help with. He did technically have a whole week. He’d find someone. 

 

“Yeah,” Soul said, breathing out a lungful of air. “No problem.”

 

Maka took Soul’s long fingered hands in hers, and looked up at him. “I love you, Soul,” she said. “You know?”

 

Soul nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  

 

***

 

They walked down the stairs slowly, Soul carefully making sure Maka didn’t fall, holding her small hands in his own large ones. Once at the ground floor, Soul helped Maka into the large vehicle. The engine turned over, and Maka buckled her seatbelt.

 

She rolled down the window and leaned out, kissing Soul on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a half hour?” 

 

Soul nodded and she looked intently at him until he said, “Yes, I’ll be right behind you.” 

 

Maka looked satisfied and rolled the window back up, backed the unwieldy truck out of the space, and was soon trundling off through the lot. 

 

Soul looked at the motorbike, and decided he had time to go back up and finish packing another box and still have time to get back to the hotel before Maka got worried.

 

Soul walked back up the stairs, and set about making and filling another cardboard box. Into it went a pie tin, a pasta strainer, five matching silver bowls, a toaster, a timer shaped like a smiling avocado, and three cutting boards.

 

He carried the box over to the coffee table and sat down at the low couch, staring blankly at the contents of a life before him. 

 

Soul assumed the avocado timer was not something Wes had bought, perhaps it was a leftover from his ex wife, Wes hates avocado. 

 

Soul’s thoughts scattered like sand in a windstorm. It was several moments before he collected them back together. Hated. Wes  _ had _ hated avocado. He didn’t anymore. He didn’t anything. Not anymore.

_____

  
  


Soul woke up on the couch. His phone was ringing, playing Maka’s familiar ringtone. It was two hours since she left. Fuck. 

 

He picked up the phone. 

 

“Soul! Jesus christ. You idiot, I thought you’d crashed the bike!”

 

Soul was rubbing the sleep from his eyes and he felt the comfortable draw of the couch’s cushions call to him. God, he was tired. 

 

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled into the phone. “Fell asleep on the couch here. ‘M alright. No crashes.” In his sleepy state, a distant, half-remembered part of him tried to sing a measure of music that always felt like saying “It’s okay” to him, but instead what came out of his mouth was, “I’m fine, Maka.”

 

There was deep inhalation of breath on the other side of the line. “Good. Well. I’m thoroughly concerned you will crash that bike. I can’t get the image of you splattered across the thoroughfare off the backs of my eyes. Do you mind staying there ‘til I come back in the morning? I just want you to be safe.” 

 

“Yeah I can do that,” Soul said, laying back down, his legs curling so that he could fit his long lanky frame on the small but comfortable couch.   

 

“I love you, Soul.”

 

“I know,” Soul said sleepily, and closed his eyes. 

 

____

 

Soul was awakened the next morning at about eight by the sound of knocking. He looked around the unfamiliar room for several moments before his mind landed on where he was. 

 

Wes’s flat. Maka didn’t have a key.

 

Soul trudged to the door and opened it sleepily.

 

“Maka, the door was unlocked I-” Soul pulled up short, blinking in confusion for a moment.

 

A balding, older man with a short grey beard stood outside, holding an umbrella and what appeared to be two cups of Deathbucks coffee. He was dressed in a pair of khaki dress pants and a vibrant pink button down shirt, and a teal tie decorated with a pineapple. Over the absurd and almost blinding display of color, he wore a black suit jacket. 

 

“Mr. Warner, what are you doing here?” Soul said, somewhat bewildered as to why his middle school orchestra teacher was standing outside the door to his dead brother’s condo.

 

“Well now,” said Mr. Warner, leaning his umbrella up against the doorframe. He reached into his shirt pocket and put on a pair of large, thick lensed glasses. “Ah, there you are. Look how you’ve grown! You were the smallest boy in the orchestra all those years back and now you’re as tall as a chimney!” He smiled broadly, looking Soul up and down, looking like he might go in for a hug, but then his face dropped. “Right. I heard the news last night, and I called your father and he said you were likely to be here this morning, and so here I came. With coffee.” He gestured unnecessarily at the pair of cups he was carrying. 

 

The burning question in the back of Soul’s head dropped out of his mouth before he could consider it. “Why?”

 

Mr. Warner gave a sad smile and offered Soul one of the coffees. “Perhaps it’s just the sentimental old man in me, but when one of the greats passes, I think the living should send them off in style, and failing that, they can at least have a drink and toast his memory.” Mr. Warner glanced at the coffee cups, a somewhat dissatisfied expression upon his face. “Coffee isn’t quite a fine bottle of scotch, but I have a class to teach, and truth be told, Soul my boy, I’m not as young as I once was.”

 

Soul mentally did some math about his old music teacher’s age and figured he must be at least sixty, perhaps seventy, at this point. 

 

Tentatively, Soul reached out and took one of the cups of coffee, and opened the door fully.

 

Mr. Warner stepped in, leaving his umbrella on the doorstep, and sat down on the couch Soul had just a few minutes ago risen from. 

 

There was silence as they sat there for a minute. Soul drank his coffee black, but Mr. Warner added an almost obscene amount of cream and sugar to his cup before mixing it together and taking a sip.

 

“I don’t remember what year you were in,” Mr. Warner said. “But Wes must have been in high school by then.”

 

_ Soul wrung his hands, sweating in his black, slightly-too-large pinstriped suit jacket and red shirt. His hands shook slightly and he stepped from foot to foot behind the curtains.  _

 

_ Beyond his vision, the orchestra finished playing Pachelbel's Canon in D, which Soul usually loved. At the moment though, he was having trouble enjoying much of anything, with the stage fright stiffening his spine and his fear sitting high in his stomach; it was less like butterflies and a lot more like a belly full of spiders.  _

 

_ There was a round of applause, the kind parents give for their kids even though they hate orchestra music. Full-hearted, but lacking in even a small amount of enthusiasm. As the applause faded, Mr. Warner spoke into a microphone, “And now, Soul Evans, one of our usual cello players, will perform an original piece on piano.” _

 

_ Soul walked out onto the stage, in front the rest of the orchestra, where a piano had been placed so that the audience could see him in profile.  _

 

_ His heart was in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Orchestra kids were looking at him expectantly, parents were looking at each other or their phones. He didn’t want to play - he just wanted to leave. _

 

_ Soul desperately plead with God, or the universe, or whoever ran things, to keep anyone from laughing. Anything but that. _

 

_ Out of the darkened auditorium, a short series of notes was sung. A first to a fifth.  _

 

_ Soul stiffened as the sound of Wes’s voice cutting through the silence. Then, he smiled, and played the fifth down to the third of the A Scale on the piano in a short response. _

 

_ Soul sat at the piano and began to play. _

 

_ His hands gradually lost tension as he played, though the nervousness cost him some of his smoothness in the beginning section. His hands moved in slow arcs, left occasionally going over his right to hit higher notes, hammering out a gradually ascending melody that sounded to him like the piano was singing the song of fear and joy intertwined.  _

 

_ It was not as perfect in the real world as it had been in his daydreams. He held a few notes slightly too long and skipped an entire measure because his handwritten notation was difficult to read in some places. Similarly, unlike in his daydreams, the pretty violinist a year above him did not come ask to be his girlfriend after.  _

 

_ Worst of all, his mother and father, sitting in the front row of the audience did not seem overly impressed with his piece, or his performance.   _

 

_ There was applause of course, slightly more scattered, and certainly less interested than had been for the orchestra at large, but applause nonetheless.  _

 

_ Still, Soul felt his heart sink as he stood up, and walked off stage without looking at the audience or bowing.  _

 

_ He sat behind the second curtain as the orchestra packed up instruments and music stands and left the auditorium. He stayed there until he was fairly certain that everyone had left the hall, and he could walk to the door unmolested.  _

 

_ He walked across the empty auditorium, his footsteps echoing off the walls, and up to the metal doors. _

 

_ He pushed the door open slightly and heard his mother’s voice. _

 

_ “His posture was impeccable, and his timing was wonderful, not even a note was out of signature, but you have to admit, Mr. Warner, that Wes was writing more complex and interesting pieces at Soul’s age.” _

 

_ He felt tears in his eyes and shook his head to clear them. He focused all his mind on trying not to cry. He was not up for a car ride being berated tonight.  _

 

_ “Quite,” said Soul’s father. “But dear, Wes is a prodigy, you can’t expect Soul to measure up. It’s not fair to him.” _

 

_ ‘Not fair to Wes to have me measured to him,’ Soul thought bitterly as he continued to fight the wetness in his eyes. ‘Why is nothing I do good enough?’ _

 

_ “Mrs. Evans,” came Mr. Warner’s soft voice, “your sons are quite different young men. I certainly don’t agree that Soul’s piece needs complexity. Sometimes in music what is most important is emotion and care, and Soul has both of those things in spades.” _

 

“I thought it was brilliant!”  _ Wes’s voice was like a trumpet. His voice cracked but he didn’t seem deterred. “I thought the melody line was beautiful and the counterpoint was clever and perfect.” _

 

_ “Well given that you are a child, we will take your opinion with a significant amount of salt, Wesley.” his mother’s voice said coldly. _

 

_ “Oh, I’m sorry I thought I was a prodigy,” said Wes, his tone dripping with sarcasm.   _

 

_ There was silence. Mr. Warner laughed, suddenly, and without restraint.  _

 

_ Soul waited the appropriate amount of time to make it seem like he hadn't heard that last part before stepping out into the hall. _

 

“-a great loss, to lose such a man so young,” Mr. Warner said, opening a packet of Splenda and pouring it into his empty cup. 

 

_ Oh yes, what a loss for the violin,  _ Soul thought bitterly. Another one of these people, who valued his brother for his skill and his talent and not for his personhood. He felt his mouth tighten and his back straighten.

 

“He was a very good performer,” he said stiffly, trying not to growl the words.

 

“No, not for that,” Mr. Warner said, rather gently. “Your brother had a gift for saying what he felt needed saying. For helping. For smiling at strangers. He had a good heart.”

 

There was a silence as Soul’s teacher smiled softly and Soul took a drink from his cup. 

 

“He came home with some black eyes for that, I think,” Soul said, looking down at his hands. 

 

“I’ll bet he did, at that,” the older man admitted. “Several detentions too if I recall.”

 

An alarm sounded from the older man’s wristwatch. He gave Soul his deepest condolences, and his wishes for “Wes’s immortal soul”, and apologized that he couldn’t stay longer, but he had pupils to teach. Soul, for his part, guided him to the door, shook his hand, and wished the old man well. 

 

When the door closed, he turned back to the quiet home, and began to clean up the empty coffee cups and sugar packets. Soon he was going through the DVD collection on the bookshelf, and alternately trashing and packing DVDs.  _ Star Wars,  _ keep.  _ Water World,  _ trash.  _ The Simpsons Seasons 1-15,  _ keep, but also secretly judge someone for owning that much Simpsons.  _ Paranormal Activity,  _ uhhhh. He examined the covers of nearly sixteen ghost movies. He opted to trash them.

 

And felt himself jump out of his skin as Maka opened the door with a loud crash.

 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph Stalin!” he swore, relaxing and letting his arms fall from where they had been held in a boxer’s position in front of him. 

 

Maka arched an eyebrow. “You know that I would destroy you in a fist fight, right?”

 

“I’m six feet tall!” Soul protested.

 

“And you sway like a tumbleweed,” said Maka, closing the door. “Besides, my closeness to the ground gives me solidity. I could destroy you with half a boob.”

 

Soul opted to not argue that point. She could, and had previously, won arguments with the “tasteful side boob” tactic. 

 

It felt unfair.

 

“So what can I help with?” Maka said, coming into the room, and standing on her tiptoes to kiss him briefly.

 

“I want to get some of this furniture out of here. So, against my better judgement, I’ll probably have to call Dad, as you’re in no condition to help.”

 

Maka put her hands on her hips. “Solidity. I’m small, not weak, damnit.”

 

“You’re also this new fancy thing called _ pregnant _ ,” Soul said, gesturing at her entire being. “You should not be lifting a couch!  _ Put it down _ ,” he added, as Maka went to the other end of the couch and lifted it without any apparent effort. 

 

“I’m not  _ that _ pregnant,” Maka said, proceeding to do arm curls with the lumpy couch. “I’m fine.”

 

“I just don’t think you should-” Soul stopped, brain whirring. He took a deep breath and rephrased. “I would feel more  _ comfortable _ if you would let me and someone else handle the heavy stuff. I just get worried. Please.”

 

Maka blinked at him, and set the couch back down. “Are you sure? You said you didn’t want to involve them.” 

 

“Dad and I are...fine. Ish. Kinda,” Soul managed. His dad, at least, hadn’t treated his decision to go into teaching as a complete let down. He felt his shoulders tighten at the memory, hands balled into fists. 

 

“Soul,” Maka said softly. “Look at me.” 

 

He did, though there was a tension in it, like a string pulled taut.  

 

“I can’t imagine what this is like for you. But I’ve lost people too, you know?”

 

“It’s not the same, Maka”

 

“I know that. I’m just saying-”

 

Something burst from Soul before he could think about it. “Your mom didn’t die, Maka, she just left.”

 

There was a silence and Soul cringed. “Maka, I-” 

 

“Go call your dad,” Maka said, with forced calm. She pointed at the front door and Soul wisely exited the condominium.  

_____

 

“One, two, three!” said James Evans, as he and Soul lifted the bookshelf from where they had maneuvered it in the hallway. 

 

They ploddingly, awkwardly stumbled out the door and down the wrought iron stairs with the weight of the large oaken bookshelf. They stopped twice on the way down. 

 

Soul had been studying his father on and off since he had gotten out of his expensive sedan a half hour before. The man was older than Soul remembered him being. 

 

His hair was thinning, though it retained the lustrous white sheen he had passed on to his sons. His frame was more rounded at the waist, though it was thinner at his shoulders and his neck, giving him the odd appearance of a grape stuck into a large melon with a toothpick. His skin was more wrinkled and papery than Soul remembered too. His eyes were framed by crow’s feet and smile lines Soul didn’t think his father had possessed during his childhood. It seemed that in the months or years before Wes’ death, his father had grown accustomed to smiling. 

 

James Evans was not smiling now. There was a heaviness in him that poured from his eyes. Eyes that sat, gaunt and un-glimmering, beneath his thick frosty eyebrows. Sorrow pulsed from him in nearly palpable waves, and Soul wondered, privately, each time he looked closely how his father could keep from being swept away in it. 

 

The large oaken bookcase was not the only weight the two men carried upon their shoulders.

 

As they lifted the heavy wooden frame into the moving truck, Soul’s arms protesting, there was something almost religious about the way they slid the empty shelf into the last spot in the truck and shut the door. 

 

The two white haired men stood silently, letting the sound of the slamming door fade like the last notes of a song neither had wished to hear.

 

They both began to speak at the same time.

 

“Well I should-” began Soul, his mind beginning the plan to escape back into the work and away from his father.

 

“Do you mind if I smoke?”  

 

Soul stopped for a second, the gears of his mind trying to catch up. “Uh...no?”

 

His father pulled a wrinkled box of cigarettes out of the pocket of his jeans, as well as a lighter, and lit the death stick before stuffing both back in his pocket.

 

“Since when do you smoke?” Soul asked, bewildered.

 

“Since well before you were born,” the older man replied, exhaling a lungful of smoke. “Your mom made me stop when you were born though.”

 

“Me?” Soul said, taken a bit aback. 

 

“You,” said his father, pointing at him with the two fingers holding the smoking cigarette. “We were pretty young when she was pregnant the first time, and it didn’t occur to us that we were creating a bad environment until you came along.”

 

Soul felt mildly like he had been hit by a train. The kind that ferried children around malls and playgrounds, so not an overly large train, but still. 

 

“‘ _ We were creating’?”  _ Soul echoed. “Mom smoked too?”

 

There was something very boyish, and almost sly about how his father smiled at the question. “Definitely. More than me even.” 

 

“When did you start smoking again? Those are bad for you, you realize. Like ‘you will die’ bad.”

 

“Eh,” his father said. “I’m sixty-one years old, and I smoked like a chimney from ten ‘til thirty. I figure I’m doomed anyway at this point, so I might as well enjoy myself now and again.”

 

There was another great puff of smoke before his father dropped the cigarette onto the ground and let it burn itself out. 

 

A heavy silence descended, and for a moment both men seemed to carry the weight of the oaken shelf again. There was a slight attempt at awkward small talk. About the weather. About the news. Soul could feel how they both avoided the name that sat between them like the sky on the back of Atlas. 

 

“I did a lot wrong, when you were young,” his father said abruptly, his foot pressing down and quenching the still burning cigarette on the pavement. 

 

Soul looked up. His father stood holding a second cigarette, unlit in the palm of his hand.

 

“When Wes learned the violin I got...obsessed. He was brilliant. He was twice as good as I’d ever been by the time he was five. I thought I could have some kind of dynasty of the most talented musicians. And I pushed you very hard.” His father cleared his throat before continuing. “Too hard. And too often I was harsh, even mean to you, when you couldn’t live up to my expectations. That was wrong, and cruel of me. I’m sorry.”

 

Soul looked at his father to see if he was done. He was not. 

 

“It never really occurred to me that you might not enjoy performing, or that you might have other dreams or interests. Your mother and I had only ever had music. I think I yelled at you when you developed an interest in baseball, or when you wanted to to paint in high school. There were a lot of times when I wasn’t the man I should have been.” James stopped, cleared his throat and continued. “When I wasn’t the father I should have been. I failed you, Soul, and I am so sorry.”

 

Soul looked away, ashamed, as his father’s eyes had grown slightly watery.

 

“Dad,” he began awkwardly, “It’s... fine. You don’t need too... just because of Wes...”

 

“I’m not talking about Wes.” His father said. “I failed Wes in a lot of ways too. But this is about you. Soul Evans. My precious son, who I love just as much as I ever loved Wes, even if I didn’t know how to show it.” 

____

 

After his father left, Soul’s mood seemed to pick up somewhat. There was slightly less lethargy in his steps, though not quite a spring. 

 

Maka had carried down a few more light boxes, and Soul no longer felt anxious seeing her step out the door with something. 

 

The furniture, save the bed in Wes’s former room had all been cleared out, and Maka had settled all the boxes from the living room by the door, so Soul felt quite justified sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall. He looked at the stack of boxes next to him. Maka had written “Charity?” with a sharpie on several boxes and “Take Home?” on others. There was also a small “Soul+Maka” written on one corner, encircled by a small heart. 

 

He smiled at the last, caressing it with his thumb, thinking fond thoughts of when he’d written something similar their last year of college. He’d written it on the front wall of her dorm in spray paint in the middle of the night. 

 

Maka’s version was more tasteful. It certainly involved less court time. Fucking Black Star. 

 

Soul felt Maka curl her fingers around his and lean her head on his chest. He hadn’t even heard her approaching. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Soul said, wrapping his arm around her waist. “For what I said. That was really fucked up and I’m sorry for being such a complete bastard.”

 

He felt his wife chuckle softly into his chest. “That was fast. Usually our fights last at least a day before one of us stops being...you know.”

 

“Stubborn beyond all mortal ken?” 

 

“So many SAT Vocab words,” Maka teased, a small smile gracing her face. “Did you find a dictionary somewhere?”

 

Soul kissed his wife’s knuckles, and Maka sighed contentedly into his chest.

“Dad sort of... apologized... for how he was when I was a kid,” Soul said after a moment of silence. He looked away, trying to make the comment nonchalant. 

 

Maka tilted her head up at him, raising a perfect eyebrow. “He ‘sort of’ apologized?”

 

“He apologized,” Soul clarified. “He said he wanted to try and be a part of my life again, if I wanted.” 

 

“And do you?” Maka said, leaning away somewhat so she could look him in the face. “Want that?”

 

“I... I think so? I don’t know. Maybe.” 

 

Maka squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to decide now, Soul. You can wait til this is dealt with, or a few months, or even a few years. When you’re ready.”

 

They sat there and leaned against the wall for a while, allowing the conversation to lapse into a comfortable silence. 

 

Soul closed his eyes, trying to find a moment of calm in the tempest of the last few days. It was like the eye of a hurricane, the brief reprieve from a battle, an island of serenity. He clung to the moment with his wife, there on the floor, the care they shared making a small impenetrable fortress from the world. If only for a few moments.  

 

Then, Soul chose to let it break, and rose to his feet, feeling the weight of everything wash over him, a wave of crushing responsibility. 

 

“Help me up,” Maka said, holding her hands out. Soul smiled and lifted her until she stood on her feet. 

 

Maka smiled at him, and put a hand on his cheek. “It’s good to see you smile. I missed it.”

 

Soul’s expression dropped immediately. So did Maka’s.

 

“Soul, what was that?” She squeezed his hand three times.  _ I love you.  _

 

He squeezed back twice.  _ I know _ . 

 

“I just... I shouldn’t smile while we’re clearing out his house, you know? It feels... disrespectful.”

 

“I’m sure Wes would want you to smile, Soul.” 

 

Soul disagreed.

________

Maka took the truck, filled with furniture and charity boxes, to a church. The church had put an ad online for furniture and furnishings for a home they were helping a refugee family within the city. Soul had opted to not donate to the Goodwill, on account of their Disability Pay practices. They’d stumbled on the ad on Craigslist, and Soul felt that giving a family a comfortable home would’ve been in keeping with Wes’s memory. And so Maka had driven off, leaving Soul to put the last few rooms in boxes. The church was a few towns over, and she would be at least an hour or two.

 

Soul leaned against the frame of the door to the empty bedroom, his fingers tapping the rhythm to Bach’s Sonata in E Major against the painted sides. He took a deep breath, and exhaled deeply, sounding like a horse. 

 

He turned from the room, walking into the bathroom. A vague white-haired shape stared back at him from the mirror, until he turned the lights on, revealing the fully lit reflection of himself. There were deep bags under his bloodshot eyes, and several days worth of stubble growing on his cheeks and chin. When was the last time he had shaved? 

 

Soul turned the tap on and splashed cold water on his face, before closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. A chime from his pocket sounded out into the empty room, and Soul retrieved his phone and looked at the alert. 

 

**“Tsubaki:** Are you free? Can I call? **”**

 

Soul felt an intense burst of adoration for his friend and her simple consideration. It was the kind of thing most people didn’t think about, but Tsu always checked to make sure she wasn’t interrupting anything before calling him. He opened his phone, and called her. 

 

“Hey Tsu,” he said, looking at his reflection, and opening the side mirror to look through the medicine cabinet.

 

“Hi Soul. How are you doing?” Tsubaki’s voice came through the speaker softly. There was a hint of concern in her voice, tinged with something else... guilt?

 

“I’m fine,” Soul said, getting the feeling that this call was somehow Maka’s doing. He grabbed the bottles of tylenol and dayquil in his free hand, and carried them out to where there where boxes. 

 

“Are you sure? M-I heard that you might need to talk to someone.” 

 

Yup. Maka’s doing. 

 

“No, really I’m okay,” Soul said, suppressing a sigh of frustration. Couldn’t anyone just leave him to himself? He’d be fine. It would just take time.

 

There was an intake of breath on the other line, and he could almost feel Tsu think about trying again, but instead she said, “Well. If you need someone to talk to who even sort of understands, give me a call. My brother died in that car accident a few years back. So... I have some experience. I know it isn’t quite the same but...”

 

Soul took a deep breath, and let it out, allowing his frustration to flow out of him. Tsu just wanted to help. She hadn’t done anything wrong, there was nothing to fight about. Deep breath. Soul counted to fourteen silently. 

 

“Thanks Tsu. If I need to I’ll call,” he said.

 

“Promise?” Tsubaki said, with a hint of suspicion.

 

“Yeah, I promise.”

 

“An ‘I Will Keep Black-Star Away From The Weed Promise?’”

 

Soul felt a small grin rise in his chest at the old inside joke from their college days, though it did not spill onto his face. Fucking Black Star. “Promise.” 

 

The line cracked with silence for a moment. 

 

“He was a good guy, your brother,” Tsubaki said. “I would’ve come out with you guys if I could have.”

 

_ The airport in Death City was not overly large, but it was midsized, and Soul walked past several restaurants and stores on the inside as he and Wes approached their gate. _

 

_ It was about seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. The two of them had spent the day before looking at Nevada State, where Soul wanted to go in the fall. _

 

_ Wes’ dress shoes made soft clicking sounds with each step he took on the sand colored faux-marble tiles, an odd companion to the squeaking Soul’s black converse shoes squelched out with each step. _

 

_ “Which gate are we at again?” Wes said, standing on his toes slightly, trying to see over the heads of some of the other soon-to-be passengers. He turned to his brother, who was gazing at a display of candy bars with a look of hunger. “Soul?” _

 

_ “B-26,” said Soul, tearing his eyes from the tantalizing display.  _

 

_ Soul lifted his head slightly, not needing to jump to see over the heads of passersby. Soul was now a solid three inches taller than his older brother, and Soul took great joy in reminding Wes of this. “It’s all the way at the end.”  _

 

_ Wes nodded, and began to weave in and out of oncoming pedestrians, arrowing towards their destination.  _

 

_ Soul rolled his eyes. They were almost two whole hours early. You only needed to be  _ one  _ hour early to make sure you made your flight. What were he and Wes going to do for  _ two hours _? _

 

_ “We could just go get pancakes,” Soul said, gesturing towards the IHOP back the way they had come. “We have two hours, they have coffee! I need coffee!” _

 

_ “I just want to check in with the gate people,” Wes said. “I just want to make sure they don’t leave without us.” _

 

_ “Wes, has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible?”  _

 

_ “Repeatedly, with great emphasis and frustration,” Wes said, smiling, reaching up and ruffling Soul’s hair. Soul took some consolation in the fact that Wes had to reach upwards to do that now.  _

 

_ The pair made their way down the gate pathway, passing signs. B-20. B-22.  _

 

_ At B-26 they came upon a nearly empty series of those false leather chairs every airport seemed to have, as if they all ordered from the same Airline Product Magazine.  _

 

_ A tall young woman probably a year or so Soul’s senior stood speaking with the gate attendants, arms gesturing wildly, voice loud and distraught.  _

 

_ “Please! I’m sorry I’m late please please please just let me on” the woman said, sounding distraught. “The plane it hasn’t left yet. Please?”  _

 

_ “I’m sorry, ma’am, the captain has already locked the door and should be taxi-ing away at any moment. It’s beyond my control.” The gate attendant looked genuinely sorry.  _

 

_ At that moment, the plane outside slowly backed away from the building.  _

 

_ The woman sighed, frustrated. “When is the next flight to Miami? Can I trade in this ticket please?”  _

 

_ The gate attendant dutifully began scrolling through his computer, and typing. “The next one I have to Miami isn’t until tonight at six pm, but it’s full up. You could wait and see if someone doesn’t show up, but short of that I don’t have an open seat til tomorrow morning at five am.”  _

 

_ “Tomorrow is too late. My grandmother is supposed to pass away tonight if the doctors are right...”  _

 

_ Wes stepped forward and politely said, “I’m very sorry to hear that. Is there anyone else who will be there?” _

 

_ The woman turned to Wes and shook her head slightly. “Everyone else is in Japan and won’t land until Monday. She was supposed to make it through the week but she started spiraling a few hours ago.”  _

 

_ It seemed to Soul that this young woman was on the brink of tears, and he did Not Know how to handle a crying woman.  _

 

_ Wes tentatively placed a hand on the woman’s arm. “My name is Wes Evans, and this is my brother Soul. I can’t really do much about the flight, but I can buy you breakfast and some coffee and we’ll see if we can think of something.” Wes smiled comfortingly. “Would that be alright?”  _

 

_ The woman, Tsubaki, nodded, and the three of them walked away from the gate to the string of restaurants and shops at the beginning of the terminal.  _

 

_ Tsubaki had a bit of a cry, and drank more coffee than Soul or Wes. Wes tried to engage her about things to keep her distracted, and they discovered she was a freshman at Nevada State, and was planning to major in botany. She missed her cats who weren’t allowed in the dormitory. She was hoping to be able to go home to Japan to see the cherry blossoms in the spring.  _

 

_ After about an hour, Soul and Wes’s plane was called to board. The trio walked back to the gate, and Tsubaki hugged each of them, thanking them for...well Soul didn’t know. It wasn’t as if they had fixed anything.  _

 

_ “I’m really sorry, Tsubaki,” Wes said. “I wish I could help more.” _

 

_ They boarded the plane, and Tsubaki sat, still sad, but at least for the moment, less alone. _

__

 

Soul opened the closet, and began to put several hangers of clothes into one of the boxes Maka had labeled “For Charity”. Three black suits, four long sleeved button downs, two black leather belts, several ties, and several sets of t-shirts and jeans went into the box. 

 

There was little remarkable about his brother’s clothing collection, except for the bizarre continuation of Wes’s apparent Simpson’s obsession that had presented itself this time in the form of three t-shirts of various characters, and one with lettering that said “Money can be exchanged for goods and services”. 

 

Soul’s hands reached to the shelf above where the hangers had sat, taking down a shoebox. He opened it to find a birth certificate, a Social Security Card, and a set of fingerprint identifiers, all of which bore the name “Wesley Marcus Evans”. 

 

He wasn’t sure what to do with those -- did he keep them? Burn them? He probably shouldn’t just throw them out, that was asking for someone to start making fake credit cards under Wes’s name. 

 

He placed the box on the floor in the middle of the room, his fingers tracing the corners briefly as he set it down, and turned back to the closet. 

 

His hands returned to the high shelf, feeling along the back of the wall. He didn’t want to leave anything in the home all alone, to sit abandoned, gathering dust. 

 

His fingers grazed along something smooth and rectangular, Familiar, with the grain of sanded wood. He gripped the item, pulling it down. It was a dark wooden box, about the size of a drinking glass, with a lid attached by rusting hinge at the back. The front had a carving of a small boy with a candle, that showed through to the inside of the box, where a small lightbulb sat. 

 

Soul lowered himself to the floor, looking at the nightlight that had sat in his room when he had been afraid of the dark as a child. It had been Wes’s first, and their father’s before that. He vaguely recalled being told that their father’s uncle had made it by hand right after the Great Depression. 

 

Soul felt along the carved shape of the boy, holding his small candle against unseen darkness. He wondered if it still worked. Impulsively, Soul turned and leaned as far as he could to his left, and plugged the light’s electrical cord into an outlet beside the closet door. 

 

A soft light illuminated the inside of the box, showing the carved figure in stark contrast to the dark wood of the box. Then, slowly, the light got softer, and softer, and then, it fizzled out. Soul unplugged the cord from the wall and plugged it back in, but the box remained dark. 

 

Gently, Soul placed the old nightlight into the box on top of his brother’s clothes. The room suddenly smelled like sweat to him, and he quietly carried the full box to the front of the flat. He hesitated momentarily, before taking the nightlight and placing it into one of the boxes marked “Home”, in which nothing currently sat. 

 

He taped up the box of clothes, hating the atonal sound of the tape being pulled, and turned to the mostly empty home. 

 

His stomach turned as he realized what was left.

 

He turned and walked out the front door. 

 

___

 

The motorcycle blared its horrible out of tune thrum as Soul turned it down the streets of the town he had grown up in. He was being reckless not wearing a helmet, and resolved not to tell Maka. 

 

He needed to feel the wind in his hair, he needed to feel his heart beating in his chest he needed...something. 

 

He passed the neighborhoods of people he’d gone to highschool with, and he felt a small stirring of nostalgia for friends long gone, memories long since past. The longing of a person he had left behind years before. His mind flashed to thoughts of smoking weed outside the local 7-11 his senior year with the burnouts, and blaring Green Day from his room to irritate his mother. 

 

The monstrosity carried him passed the library where he’d gotten a job at sixteen, down a back road, and towards the small conglomeration of shops and government buildings that constituted a downtown in this backwater suburban dream. 

 

Down a small side street where there had once been an ice cream parlor that Wes had always gotten mint-chocolate chip flavor.

 

It felt to Soul as if the bike itself was choosing the direction. He couldn’t recall deciding to come this way. Still, the motorcycle made its way almost inexorably down the main street, and Soul slowly rolled past a nail salon, an antique store, and several restaurants. 

 

Soul pulled up short at a stop sign, and looked down the cross street, his mind spinning. 

 

_ “I’ve been thinking about dropping out, actually,” Soul said to his parents, twirling his fork idly in his fingers. “I already know how to play piano - I don’t really think I need a piece of paper that says I have some other skill set, you know? I thought I might go on tour with the Nevada Symphony or for the touring production of the Phantom of the Opera. I’ve gotten calls from both.”  _

 

_ Soul, Wes, and their parents sat at an outside table of one of the smaller restaurants in the downtown area. The family had just finished eating, and had been talking for a short time before Soul left for his flight back to Nevada.The grass was the gray-green of death, and while it was chilly there was no snow or ice, which was unusual for late november in Connecticut. _

 

“ _ That sounds wonderful, Soul,” said his mother. “We’d always hoped you’d feel drawn to pursue music as a profession. Your father and I put in a word with the director of the Nevada Symphony. We thought you might like the option.” _

 

_ Soul actually didn’t like the option. Playing in front of people still made his stomach clench painfully, but the warmth in his mother’s tone made him glad he’d brought it up. Not to mention, his grades were suffering, and some desperate part of him was looking for an option outside academia. _

 

_ “I think the Symphony would be a perfect place for you, actually,” Soul’s father added. “The piano doesn’t often take the forefront, which you’ve always preferred, and it pays rather nicely. Not to mention the girls.” Soul’s father raised his eyebrows suggestively.  _

 

_ Soul colored somewhat. He hadn’t gotten a chance to bring up that he was...involved...with a lovely girl who did not know anything about music. Her name was Maka and she’d kicked his door down for playing records too loudly while she was studying. _

 

_ “I’ll maybe give them a call at the end of the term then,” said Soul. The unmistakable pride in his parent’s responses gave him an unexpected level of warmth and satisfaction. _

 

_ “I don’t think you should,” Wes said softly, looking at Soul with a slightly apprehensive look. “I think you should focus on your studies.”  _

 

_ “What makes you say that?” their mother asked, sounding somewhat affronted.  _

 

_ “Soul hasn’t ever really liked performing.” Wes said, eyes not leaving Soul’s face. _

 

_ Soul let his fork drop onto his empty plate with a clatter. “I’m ready to go,” he said abruptly. _

 

_ “Yes, your mother and I should start heading back.” _

 

_ Goodbyes were exchanged and Soul and Wes departed, with Wes planning to drive Soul to the airport, leaving their parents gathering their things at the table..  _

 

_ The door to Wes’ small car slammed shut, and Soul buckled his seatbelt, fuming quietly to himself.  _

 

_ Wes clambered in more calmly, and he turned the engine over. The car backed out of the parking space, and with the sound of crunching gravel, Wes left the lot and headed towards the highway.  _

 

_ Silence consumed them, and to Soul it was palpable, pulsing sensation, and he imagined waves of his anger roiling out from him, rebounding off the doors and windows of the car.  _

 

_ “Why do you not want me to join the symphony?” Soul said at last, not taking his eyes off the road before them.  _

 

_ “I don’t think you would like it,” Wes responded, his eyes not leaving the path of the moving vehicle. “You don’t like playing for an audience. You never have.” _

 

_ “I’m sure it has nothing to do with me not being good enough for a symphony,” Soul bit out angrily. _

 

_ Wes turned and looked at him for a moment. “Of course it doesn’t. You’re a brilliant pianist. The Nevada Symphony isn’t even particularly prodigious -” _

 

_ “So I could join the Nevada Symphony, because it’s not very good.”  _

 

_ Wes sighed, sounding irritated. “No, that isn’t what I meant. I think you could play anywhere in the world. I just don’t think it’s a good choice for you.” _

 

_ The airport exit came up, and Wes turned on his blinker, moving over to escape the freeway, the small two door car’s path precise and controlled.  _

 

_ The silence returned.  _

 

_ “Yeah, you’d hate to lose Golden Boy status too huh?” Soul said acidly, as they pulled up to the curb just in front of the airport.  _

 

_ Soul got out of the car, and went to the trunk, which popped open as Wes pulled a lever inside the vehicle. Wes got out of of the driver’s side and joined Soul, helping to pull out his luggage.  _

 

_ “I just want you to be happy. And I don’t think this will make you happy,” Wes said.  _

 

_ Soul felt the jealousy of his youth boil up in his throat, and as he said them, the words felt like freedom from hours slaving over ivory keys, trying desperately to be his brother’s equal. _

 

_ “You know what Wes? If you can’t support me I don’t want you in my life.” _

 

_ Wes colored. “I’m just trying to help.”  _

 

_ “I don’t  _ need  _ your help!” Soul shouted. “I never have. I won’t ever.” _

 

_ Wes stood silently, his shock evident his back straight, his eyes wet and hurt.   _

 

_ “Just..” Soul started. “Just get out of here, Wes. Honest to God you make me so angry.” _

 

_ Wes didn’t make a move to get back in the car, and so Soul grabbed his backpack and his suitcase, and made his way to the sliding doors to the airport.  _

 

_ From behind him, softly Wes sang out two notes. The first leaping to a fifth above.  _

 

_ Soul froze. Then, without glancing back, he walked through the door, and out of the cold winter air.   _

 

A loud, blaring sound erupted right behind Soul.

 

Soul jumped, the motorcycle rolling slightly forward as his hand twitched. The car behind him honked again, and Soul shook his head, trying to clear it. 

 

He took off, the motorcycle rumbling. He drove down more streets, and gradually, the discordant clamor of the engine faded beneath the soft of ringing in Soul’s ears. A lack of song. The sound of emptiness. The sound of nothing. 

 

The sound of death.

_

 

Wes’s front door opened silently, the well-oiled hinges pivoting as the black door swung inwards. 

 

Soul stepped in, his fingers tapping out a song on his legs like there was a keyboard on them. 

 

Slowly, his fingers tracing along the grey walls, Soul walked from the empty living room, passed the kitchen, and to the end of the hall.

 

There, he stopped, and glanced at the three white doors. Turning to his left, Soul took a deep breath, and turned the doorknob.

 

The white door swung away from him soundlessly. The music room was silent, the air unmoving, but still a feeling of anticipation mixed with the dread in Soul’s stomach, as if he was about to walk onto a stage.

 

His first step into the room was a deliberate thing. A slow, carefully measured step. It was the kind of step one takes when tiptoeing past someone who is sleeping softly. His left foot came forward, and his shoe made no sound as he placed it down. No floorboards creaked, no voices yelled from the darkened room.

 

_ Soul was on the ground, his small bicycle flipped sideways and his knees and hands hurt so badly it drove everything else in the world from his small mind. He hadn’t even gotten out of the driveway before falling.  _

 

From there, each step was a little easier, the deep fear of reprimand overcome with logic and age. His fingers traced a line down the ivory keys of the piano as he passed it, but no notes sang from them, and as he stepped away the silence of the room grew deeper. It was the sound of a crowd that had fallen quiet. 

 

_ Soul wiped his skinned hands on his shirt, hoping it would make the pain go away. He felt so dumb and his hands and knees and cheek stung.  _

 

Soul’s long fingers found the violin where it lay on the floor and he cradled it like a child in his arms as he lifted it, turning to where an open case lay on top of a table. 

 

“You absolute bastard,” Soul said softly to the violin. “Why didn’t you call me?”

 

Suddenly, he was gripping the violin tightly, and the quiet of the room shattered like glass. “Why didn’t you call Mom, or Dad? Someone! Anyone!” His voice cracked, and he stopped, allowing the quiet to fill the room once again.

 

Soul looked down at the cherry-stained instrument in his hands. Soul’s hands trembled with fury, and for a single long moment he wanted nothing so much as to hurl the stringed instrument to the floor, to smash it at his feet. To leave it as broken and unable to sing as Wes’ suicide had made Soul. 

 

_ Soul wiped his eyes frantically, he could hear Wes’s loud footfalls coming down the driveway. He sat up, pulling his knees up to his face. _

 

Hot tears welled up in Soul’s eyes and a few spilled onto his face before he managed to stop them, and soon he sat, back pressed against the wall, holding the violin to his chest, staring out at the nearly vacant space before him. The silence of the empty music room pressed down on him like lead weights, an absence that lingered around the corners of his senses.

 

_ Wes was already half-way down the hill when Soul began to cry, red eyes pained. His chest heaved with deep breaths as he sobbed loudly into his knees _

 

Soul’s chest heaved with the effort of trying to calm himself, of deep breaths. Soul raked his hands through his hair, and he closed his eyes to the music room. He shook his head to try and clear it, but the silence of the room persisted, the deep lacking of a missing voice.   

 

_ Soul hid his face, trying to hide his tears from Wes and his footstep grew closer. Boys weren’t supposed to cry, and he didn’t want Wes to shout at him like Mom and Dad.   _

What kind of music room didn’t have Wes in it?

 

_ “You okay, kid?” Wes said, picking up the bike and moving it over to the shoulder where Soul sat. Soul sniffled, trying to stop. “Hey hey. It’s alright,” Wes said, pulling Soul into an awkward hug. “It’s okay, you can cry.” _

 

There was the sound of a foot step in the hall beyond, a sharp intake of breath, and Soul looked up at Maka, standing in the doorway, green eyes wide, a small silver object in her hands.  

 

_ Soul turned back to Wes and buried his face in his brother’s stomach, letting tears of pain run down his face. “It’s okay,” Wes’ voice said, soft hands lifting him into his lap. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”  _

 

“I’m not fine.” His voice sounded nasal even to his own ears. “I’m not fine, Maka. This is all my fault.” 

 

_ Wes began to sing, his young voice pleasant and soothing as he stroked Soul’s white hair, singing the notes to a lullaby he didn’t quite remember the words to.  _

 

A choked cry tried to escape from Soul’s  chest, but he clenched his jaw tightly, as though his teeth could make a dam that would keep his pain from leaking out. This held for only a few breaths before he began to choke on the vast, empty feeling in his chest.

 

_ Wes’ voice hummed out a melody, a major fifth and a descending third, soft and lilting as his baby brother calmed in his shoulder.  _

 

A strangled sound ripped itself from Soul’s throat, and he was openly weeping, the violin sliding to the floor, his hands balled into fists against his eyes, a child hiding from a darkened room. 

 

Soft arms wrapped him then, anchoring him, and he buried his head into Maka’s neck, tears running down his face. His arms twisted around her, as if he feared she would disappear. 

“I was so angry.” Soul’s voice was hoarse. “Over  _ nothing. _ And he was right! But I never called. I never tried to make it better. I didn’t even ask him to come to our wedding.” His voice cracked on the last word. 

 

Memories blurred together in Soul’s head. Wes, singing to him.

 

Wes, smiling from the front of an auditorium. 

 

Wes, teaching Soul to drive a motorcycle. 

 

Wes, his brother, his teacher, his best friend. 

 

Wes.

 

Who would never sing again. 

 

Wes, now gone.

 

There was more emptiness in the quiet room than could be said aloud, more loss than Soul knew how to explain. 

 

“I miss him so much.”

 

Soul stopped talking and wept softly into the crook of Maka’s neck. He cried for the loss, for his idiocy, for the death of music. For  _ Wes.  _

 

Maka held him through the storm of memory and pain, soft hands brushing through his hair.


	2. Epilogue

A pillow making contact with his face woke Soul from his sleep. He grumbled, eyes opening.

 

“It's-” Maka said sleepily from the other side of the bed.

 

“My turn, yeah, I know. Go back to sleep.” Soul braced himself, and then with a groan rolled out from under the covers.

 

Glancing at his old 80’s style alarm clock, and internally screaming because it was three am, Soul placed his feet on the carpeted floor and he rose, heading out into the hallway of their small home.

 

Soul walked down the darkened hallway, his hands idly brushing against the wall. He paused for a moment, tilting the picture of the New York skyline back so that it was straight again. Kid was coming to visit tomorrow and Soul didn’t want the man to have a meltdown. Again. 

 

The crying grew louder, if possible. Groaning softly in the back of his throat, Soul turned and continued down the hallway, and looked in the doorway at the nursery. Soul put a hand to his forehead, thumb and forefinger massaging his temples.

 

“Wes,” Soul said, modeling his tone after his high school principal. “Why are you crying?” 

 

The baby did not stop wailing. Soul stepped over to the crib, rubbing tiredness and eye-gunk out of his eyes. 

 

He reached out with his left hand and gave the mobile above his son a small push, sending it spinning. Tsu and Star had made it, and while most of the hanging figures were things like fish or stars, one figure was of Black Star himself, because of course it did.

 

“Hey, you,” he said to the green eyed monster that had stolen all of his sleep for the past three months. “Stop it.” 

 

The baby, to Soul’s surprise, gurgled what might, conceivably, have been a laugh. Soul felt a grin spread across his face through his tiredness at the sound. 

 

“Yeah? You think that’s funny?” he asked. “You’re gonna be a goofball, huh?” 

 

Wes gurgled. He didn’t seem to be crying anymore. 

 

“Really?” Soul said to his son. “That’s it? That was easy. Can I go back to bed now?”

 

Wes didn’t say anything of course. Soul turned around, and immediately Wes began to cry again. 

 

“I knew you were gonna do that, you faker,” Soul said, and reached into the crib, lifting the child into his arms. The boy’s cries became softer at the contact, but did not stop.

 

Soul moved to the rocking chair in the corner, and began looking through the children’s books on the ground beside it, bouncing his son gently with one arm and leg.

 

“Sleeeeep,” Soul intoned, hoping he might develop the power of mind control spontaneously.

 

Wes squeaked. Soul stopped bouncing the child, transferring him to the crook of his arm. 

 

He picked a book at random, and began to read it, slowly rocking the chair back and forth. Soul did all the voices. 

 

Wes stopped crying, but seemed more awake than before now.  

 

“How do I make you sleeeep?” Soul groaned, giving his son an exasperated look. 

 

Soul rocked the chair back and forth, back and forth. Then, without even meaning too, a fifth followed by a descending third came from Soul’s mouth softly. 

 

Wes blinked up at him. 

 

Soul smiled down at his son, and began to sing.


End file.
